


sail upon the bosom of the air

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Magic, Magic Realism, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For drcalvin: "do write us crackfic where Mercutio gives everyone in Verona sexually transmitted wings!"</p><p>Less...cracky than originally intended. More of a fairytale fix-it. Where everyone in Verona has sexually transmitted wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sail upon the bosom of the air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/gifts).



> We shouldn't be allowed up that early/late because this happened.

In April, a boy from the alleys sprouted a pair of wings from his shoulderblades, delicate white things that over the course of the summer grew to the span of the outstretched wings of one of the avenging angels in the church, swan-proud and strong enough to carry him swooping into the sky above the Adige to wheel with the swallows. By then he was no longer a boy from the alleys, but dressed in silk and velvet, a pampered pet curled on a cushion at the prince's feet; his wings spread out around him like a fall of snow, a whisper of coolness in the heat of August. If he blushed when the prince's madcap nephew glanced at him and winked, well, Mercutio's quick tongue had made sober graybeards redden and sputter; a mere youth could hardly be expected to remain unmoved.

A damp night in early autumn: the young Montague heir in his cups, sighing over the cold black eyes of one of Signor Placentio's nieces, scrawling odes to her slim white hands, her golden hair and noble brow, in spilled wine on the tabletop that vanished near as fast as clumsy fingers could write. Mercutio could only be praised for seeing his poor friend home; and who could blame him if a drunken kiss meant half in jest turned to laughing fumbles under the coverlet after the lamp was blown out, to be forgotten with morning light?

Romeo's wings were dove-gray, sleek and shining like the cobblestones after a morning rain; they were beautiful, and Mercutio pretended not to see them.

By Midwinter, Benvolio bore the mottled brown and russet wings of a hawk; and half the women of the brothels fluffed and preened the scarlet and blue and gold of African parrots, the green and purple striped gray of pigeons, or the drab speckled brown of sparrows. They scarcely needed gowns anymore, but had only to wrap themselves in cloaks of living feathers the envy of any noblewoman's dowry when they ventured into the streets.

By Carnival, Lady Capulet and Lady Montague eyed each other's raven's-wing black feathers with the same critical attention they had once given their gowns. Lady Montague's wings were smoother, perhaps, with a moonlit shine—she oiled them, Lady Capulet was certain—but Lady Capulet's had a becoming green sheen that she set off with new watered silk gowns trimmed with velvet and embroidered with silver and emeralds. She had never been more beautiful, not since she was her daughter's age.

(And yet her husband did not notice; he never noticed.)

Mercutio went unmasked at Carnival, clad in red and gold like a spirit of fire. After all, he had no wings; a mask would do little to hide him when more of the citizenry bore wings than did not. He expected many things when he went out in the streets, did Mercutio: he expected jests, offers of wine and companionship, and perhaps the occasional more intimate offer from one clever enough to guess how they, too, might learn to fly. He did not expect Tybalt Capulet's glove smacked stinging across his face.

Tybalt's pretty cousin was no longer able to hide her lark's wings under cloaks and loose overgowns: they had grown too much to be bound down by her clever nurse, but had to be free to stretch, to reach for the sky. And Tybalt, snarling Tybalt whose back was lean and pale and unbroken under the silk of his doublet, wanted blood for his cousin's dishonor.

 _She only wanted freedom,_ Mercutio said, with a shrug, ignoring the glove on the table. _I gave it to her._ He stood and slipped around the table, lithe and earthbound, his hair a flame in the dimness of the tavern; leaned over to scowling Tybalt with a hand brushed across his throat, and whispered in his ear, sweet as poison, _Don't you want to fly, too?_

At the end of summer, Romeo Montague and Julia Capulet fled the city. Tybalt, too, was gone; the gossips said he meant to kill Romeo and bring Julia back, but as the days drew on into autumn and no word came, Verona forgot them, as it forgot all those who left.

And Mercutio?

No one had ever asked him if _he_ wanted to fly; and in a city of people who could strain for the heavens, no one noticed the one man who left the city gates on foot, following a flock of starlings winging towards Mantua.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [with love’s light wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/952458) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen)




End file.
